


Poison

by txorakeriak



Category: Lost Souls - Poppy Z. Brite, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Branding, Crossover, Hallucinations, Implied James Norrington/Jack Sparrow, M/M, One-sided Tia Dalma/Jack Sparrow, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-11
Updated: 2006-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27605267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/txorakeriak/pseuds/txorakeriak
Summary: Tia Dalma wants to prove a point but manages the exact opposite.
Relationships: Jack Sparrow/Christian





	Poison

**Author's Note:**

> This is set between _The Curse of the Black Pearl_ and _Dead Man's Chest_.

He definitely should not have stepped into that coffin - or fallen, rather, after tripping over his own feet once again. Tia Dalma was no friend of tidying up properly and he would have liked to blame his misstep on that. Then again, his cabin on the _Pearl_ looked almost as messy and chaotic as Tia's house, so she'd probably have accused him of holding double standards. Still, she could have put that dangerous thing somewhere safe!

Anyway. He had sort of stepped into that coffin, everything had gone black, and from the distance, he had heard Tia's rough, strange voice, but he couldn't understand the words. It had probably been just another story filled with riddles. 

Nevertheless, here he was now, in a tavern he had never been to (and that was quite the miracle), staring at a rather mysterious looking barkeeper with long hair, almond shaped black eyes and high cheekbones. And the barkeeper was staring right back at him. 

At least the coffin had taken him to a tavern rather than, say, the headquarters of the Royal Navy. True, the people around him were all chattering in English - with a most curious accent - but they didn't look as if they were part of King George's happy helpers. They didn't even look like the Englishmen he was used to meeting. Most of them were dressed in black, the rims of their eyes blackened, just like their mouths. 

Jack went to the bar and sat down on a barstool. "Liquor," he ordered. "Strongest stuff you've got."

The skinny man behind the counter just smirked, nodded, and not much later, a bottle of sparkling green liquor was placed in front of Jack. 

"Here you are." The man's voice was deep, dark and as rich as a fine whiskey, but there was a coldness that sent a shiver across Jack's back. It was intriguing. He certainly wouldn't mind having company like him for the night - depending on how long he was supposed to stay here, of course. It wasn't really as if Tia Dalma had had enough time to fill him in on important details.

Jack took the bottle from the bar and lifted it to his lips, taking a hearty swig. The green liquor burned down his throat harder than his usual rum and he coughed despite himself. What the hell was that? He eyed the bottle suspiciously. There was no label on it. 

The barman flashed him another smile. Was he commiserating? Jack quickly took another swig, secretly hoping that he'd be able to cope this time. He had always boasted about being able to hold any kind of drink and he certainly wasn't inclined to be proven wrong in a country to which he was almost certain he had never been. 

He swallowed the liquor down and was able to acknowledge the taste of it though the burn crawling over his tongue. He couldn't identify any of the ingredients, but he figured that there were lots of herbs in it - the very essence of the forest, locked up in a bottle to burn down throats that were thirsty for more than just plain alcohol. 

The barman was still looking at Jack when he put down the bottle again. There was something mysterious in his gaze, something deadly. It made Jack feel as if he could see through him, know every little thought in his more or less bedazzled head and anticipate every of his moves. 

Jack decided to stare back. He felt safe having the barkeeper right in front of his eyes. Who knew what he'd do. One could never be sure.

For a while, they just stared at each other. Jack didn't quite know what message to send. Should he look hopeful? Flirtatious? Threatening? But that lad probably had a whole armada behind him, so it would make no sense to put up a fight. It really wasn't like the taverns Jack was used to visiting. People were just sitting at their tables, drinking and chatting. No smashed pint glasses and mugs, no drunken fights, and the whores were relatively chaste, compared to those in Tortuga or even Port Royal. 

Where the hell was he? This couldn't be anywhere near Tortuga - or in fact any other place he had seen so far.

He took another swig from the bottle. Maybe he really didn't need to care. Nobody was chasing him or threatening to kill him, and there was plenty of alcohol - at least until the barkeeper found out that the only money Jack possessed was a couple of Spanish doubloons. From what he had seen during the last ten minutes, it didn't look as if Spanish doubloons were an accepted currency in this strange country. He could be in trouble soon, so he might as well enjoy his peace while it lasted.

The barman was still staring at him. Maybe it would help to talk to him.

"What's yer name, luv?" he asked in that very special slurry tone he had been practicing for years.

Only then did the barkeeper's gaze seem to alter, and he was now looking at Jack instead of through him.

"Christian," he said, curiosity in his voice, as if he weren't used to being spoken to. "And you are?"

"Jack." Just for this once, Jack thought it better not to insist on the fact that he actually captained a ship - not because the _Pearl_ wasn't there, but because... Well, it was a bit hard to explain, actually. The barkeeper didn't look as if a title could impress him, and for all Jack knew, he could indeed have landed in a naval tavern. 

Before he could think of all the English-speaking countries that wanted him dead, however, the barkeeper spoke again. "Shall we go upstairs?"

"Haven't finished my--" 

Christian apparently didn't want him to take any more than three swigs of the liquor. He grabbed the bottle before Jack could reach it, put it behind the counter and smiled. "You don't need any more of that. Just follow me and see what awaits you."

It was surprising, really, how quick things worked in this unnamed country. Did they satisfy any vice in the blink of an eye?

"How much--"

"Hush now," Christian interrupted him. "You're my guest. But there's someone up there who won't like it so you better keep your voice down."

Jack just shrugged and followed Christian up the stairs and through a heavy metal door that lead into a living room. The room didn't look like the tavern at all, and he remembered having seen that particular style of tapestry and woodwork from his visits to the American south. Was that where he was? He looked out of the window but the streets didn't look familiar.

In a corner of the room, on a heap of pillows and blankets, a girl lay sleeping. She was pale, short black hair falling into her face, and she, too, had black smudges around her eyes. The sight confused Jack. She certainly wasn't a sailor, and even if she was, she had no reason to protect her eyes from the sun. The room was dark, almost as black as the night outside, despite the few candles on the wooden table in the middle of the room. 

The girl stirred in her sleep, murmured a few incoherent words and then turned around to face the wall. As Christian walked past her, he stopped for a moment to stroke her hair and whispered a soothing, "It's all right, Jessy. It's all right," before he led Jack to the spartan bed in the other corner of the room.

Then it all happened very quickly. As soon as he lay down on the worn-through mattress, he was suddenly dizzy and Christian's bony but handsome face blurred in front of his eyes. The room was spinning. What was happening to him? There were… colours. Bright, shiny multitudes of colours - and Christian's touch on his body felt so intense, more intense than anything before. Was he flying? He couldn't tell. He couldn't feel the mattress anymore. 

Christian's hands seemed to be everywhere. He felt the lean, long fingers crawl under his shirt, along his waist and rib bones, into his trousers, and even though he could feel Christian kneeling on top of him - or rather, across him - he didn't feel his weight. Just the touch. 

He began to feel weaker, heavier, like a big, grey cloud filled with enough rain to soak a meadow for a whole month. Or two. But he was not afraid or alarmed - how could he be, when Christian's oh, so sweet torture and the drug, the poison he had administered him robbed him of every coherent thought?

Suddenly, it wasn't Christian anymore. It was Cutler Beckett, the tiny, haughty, snotty bastard he had met in the East Indies. Cutler spoke to him. Jack didn't understand anything, but he heard him talk. He saw the branding iron in his hand.

Lips were at his throat, caressing him softly - so softly…

The pain he suddenly felt in his neck almost made him faint. It was stronger and more piercing than most of the things he had experienced, about as strong as the branding iron against his wrist. This was the soft, delicate skin of his neck, and it burned just as if someone were rinsing it with hot pitch. He struggled against the other body, his hands flew in the air, heavy as lead. The branding iron… He had to get it… to take it away…

Then, the grip around his cock suddenly tightened, and something wet slid along his burning throat, right there, right _there_ … and Jack came stronger than ever before.

***

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself sitting in Tia Dalma's coffin with an aching head and a full bottle of green liquor in his hand, and the state of his pants told him rather plainly that all of what had just happened had not, in fact, happened at all. 

"Did you like what you saw?" Tia Dalma asked, a smirk on her black lips. 

Jack rubbed his forehead and groaned. "Aye, but I don't see your point. He found me irresistible." He winked at her, ignoring the pain. "Just as I said. They all do. Why should I not enjoy it?"

Tia shook her head. "He bit your neck and drank your blood, Jack. You would have died, had I not pulled you back. And all you think of is how irresistible he found you?"

Jack sighed. There were a good many things he really _really_ wanted to say to Tia Dalma just then, but he decided that it was probably best if he just left and didn't come back too soon. Bad enough that Tia was as mad as a loon; when she was jealous as well, she was completely insufferable. In fact, even though she obviously wanted to convince Jack of the opposite, he was now quite certain that he would never have another woman beside his _Pearl_ \- at least that was the decision he made as he rowed back to his ship.

What he didn't know at the time was that he did in fact have two little bitemarks on his neck. Or that Christian was already waiting for him to return to his pub in the French Quarter of New Orleans. 

He didn't know yet that upstanding gentlemen like Commodore Norrington could be jealous, too. Or appalled by the amount of liquor Jack could drink when he was sulking.

It would just take him one night and one morning to find out about all this - one lonely night of senseless drinking because Norrington suspected him of having cheated on him and refused to sleep with him, and one unnerving morning of said Norrington joking mercilessly about the agonizing aftermath of a bottle of Chartreuse on an empty stomach.

Not that the experience could hammer any sense into Jack's head.


End file.
